Switch
by Roony
Summary: A convicted killer John once put away uses dark magic to switch bodies with Sam. The race is on to stop the killer in Sam's body from opening a portal to Hell and to save Sam from the fatal needle.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Switch

author: Roony

rating: T

disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

summary: A convicted killer John once put away uses dark magic to switch bodies with Sam.

A/N: hey guys, it's me! Hey, I've been kicking this idea around, finally ready to start writing it. And I wanted to get it out there before anyone else did it before me. yeah, I'm a selfish bitch like that. Anyone reading 'Blood', I am NOT abandoning you! I'll do both of these, damn it!

Author Warning: I have NOT seen this week's episode, so whatever was revealed, whatever priceless information it had, I didn't get. THEREFORE: if a part of this plot doesn't flow with things, sorry. I didn't know. Don't complain please. and whatever you do, DON'T tell me what happens! I wanna wait till I see the episode myself, okay?

All right, so, without further ado:

* * *

Chapter One: Dreams

_Something was wrong. Something was very wrong._

_First it was just a strong tug, but it quickly escalated into something far more violent. He was being torn away by some dark, shapeless entity. It hurt like hell, like his skin was being ripped off. He tried to hold on, tried to stay…_

_But it was too strong; it took him and he was being carried away. Everything around him was dark. He looked around for his older brother, his protector, to come and save him. To bring him back. _

_But Dean never came. In fact, he got the sense that Dean couldn't come. He was all alone. All alone in the dark. _

_And it still felt wrong. Unnatural, almost. _

_Suddenly, out of the vague shadows, a mirror appeared. He looked into it, and saw his frightened reflection. But al of a sudden, the reflection began to melt together, deforming the image. Wondering what was wrong with the mirror, Sam put a hand up his face, and screamed in horror at what he felt. There was nothing wrong with the mirror; his face was melting like wax! _

_Sam grabbed and clawed at his face trying to reform his features. His mouth was no longer physically present, yet somehow he was still managing to scream._

_Over his screams, a constant, taunting chant rang out in the darkness: _

_"One like you."_

_"One like you."_

_"One like you."_

Sam sat up in bed, a hand covering his face to keep himself from screaming outside of the dream. He looked around, suddenly unaware of his surroundings. It was a motel room, just like all of the ones he'd been staying in for the past few months. There were the duffel bags, tossed carelessly about the room, the laptop set on the small table by the curtained window. And there, as Sam saw when he looked to his left, was Dean, sleeping on the opposite bed.

Everything was fine.

And yet Sam couldn't help the urge to go into the small bathroom and check his face to make sure it wasn't still melting. He swallowed and closed his eyes, trying to calm down. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and shivered under the sheen of sweat that now covered his body.

"Jesus," he breathed quietly.

The nightmare had terrified him, but Sam was actually a little surprised. It hadn't been as gory as some of his dreams of Jessica's death. Not much had really even happened in the dream; most of the terror had just come from the feelings that it had brought. The sensation of being taken away (from what he really had no idea) had felt the worst, nearly unbearable.

Sam wondered where the nightmare had come from; its effect was too strong for it to be dismissed as a mere dream. And it definitely wasn't a memory, so… Sam felt a chill go up his spine as he came to the last option: one of his 'premonitions'. He didn't like calling them that, but in his opinion, it sounded a lot better than Dean's nickname, 'the shining'.

The nightmare had to have been a warning then. But a warning of what, exactly?

He tried to recall those last words, chanted over and over again…

_"One like you."_

What did that mean? Sam recalled the last time he'd had a premonition. It had been connected to Max, who'd turned out to have powers like he did. Was that was 'one like you' meant? Someone with powers like him?

But the dreams that had led him to Max had come with little pieces of knowledge to go along with them, like where to go and when. This one had just left Sam shaking with a near overwhelming sense of foreboding and fear. The basic message had been: something bad's going to happen. That wasn't exactly helpful.

He looked over at the small digital clock on the nightstand. It was about five in the morning. He fell back onto the lumpy mattress with newfound exhaustion. They'd just gotten into town around midnight. The brothers had recently finished up some ghost hunting in aptly named Tombstone, Arizona. They were currently heading north, set for Nevada.

Sam thought that just going back to sleep was all he could do right now. At the same time, however, sleeping was the last thing he wanted to do right now. He didn't want to have the dream again; it had just been too much. Then he considered the idea that maybe if he had the dream again, he could get more hints as to what the dream was warning him about.

So, with a heavy sigh, he fell back onto the mothball-smelling sheets. His body felt completely worn out, but his mind refused to relax. The rush from the dream was still going strong. Sam rolled over onto his side and tried to sleep, at the same time suppressing the fear of having the dream again.

_

* * *

_

_He walked down the stark concrete hallway, escorted with a guard on each side. He had to degradingly shuffle along in shackles. A steel door appeared at the end of the hallway and he knew where it led. But he didn't stop or resist. He walked on, head held high. _

_As he approached, the door opened, seemingly of its own accord. He didn't hesitate to walk through. He already knew what wason the other side. And there it was: a gurney, the straps open and waiting for him. _

_Suddenly, everything flashes forward, and he wason the gurney, strapped down. The curtains of the windows surrounding himare opened, and the faces of the witnesses are now all around him. He recognizes a few from the trial. The D.A., the assistant D.A., and his own lawyer (_bitch_, he thinks with a smirk). A few family members of the 'victims' are there too. And a reporter…yes, the one from CNN. The one who interviewed him earlier…_

_A sudden sting in his arm. _

_And then everything goes very cold. He can't move._

_His breathing suddenly stops. He fights, or tries to, but it's useless.He can hear his heart pounding with fear. But the poison starts to takeeffect and he can hear with horror as it slows... Slower and slower, each beat telling him how close it is to stopping. Finally, it stops._

_Then everything goes black and he dies. It's a horrible feeling, dying. He's always boasted that he doesn't fear death, but that's a big fat fucking lie. Of course he fears death; who in their right mind doesn't? _

_The feeling is overwhelming, this death. He feels very small, like a child again. He hates it. But he's too pathetic to do anything. He curls up and whimpers. He feels an unbearable misery._

_Wake up….wake up….wake up!_

Victor Gavin slowly opened his eyes. The whitewash ceiling of his cell greeted him blankly. His back was killing him and he rolled over to try and get more comfortable, but it was in vain. Not much money is put into a prison's mattresses, and certainly not for those on death row.

He ran a hand through his close-cropped red hair as he sat up, giving up on the bed completely. He swung his legs over his small bed and sat with his feet flat on the floor, his hands on his knees. He closed his blue eyes and took a deep breath, trying to reach a relaxed state. He focused on the dream, trying to go through it like a film, frame-by-frame. Any thing he saw, touched, heard, smelled, and even tasted in the dream is gone through with a mental fine-tooth comb. When he'd gone over it once, and then again just to be sure, he opened his eyes and slowly leaves the meditative state.

It was the same, exactly the same as the others. He realized that he can no longer deny it; he's running out of time. The Forces had been sending him warnings. He had heeded them, but he'd taken his time. He'd relied too much on their power and generosity. But now it's clear: he has to act. He can no longer sit back and wait.

"No more fucking around," he announced quietly to his small cell.

* * *

Sam and Dean sat across from each other in a small donut shop, each drinking coffee. Dean was scanning the local paper while Sam trying to get as much caffeine into his system as fast as he could. He had been unsuccessful at his attempt to get back to sleep; he'd also failed to completely shake the gloomy shadow the premonition had cast on him. So now he felt miserable and exhausted. Not a good combination.

He hadn't yet told Dean about the dream. Firstly because he didn't want to worry his older brother, and also because he didn't feel much of a point to it. He had gotten nothing out of the dream except this shitty feeling and the idea that in the future, something bad was going to happen. So what _else_ was new? Bad stuff happened to the Winchester boys everyday. You didn't have to have 'the shining' to figure out that more unfortunate things were going to befall them.

"Hey, this is pretty interesting," Dean announced, handing Sam the paper.

Sam scanned the headlines. " 'New firehouse finished'…'High School Wins State Football Championship'…" He raised a questioning eyebrow at Dean who shook his head in annoyance.

"Bottom left, idiot."

Sam followed his brother's directions and raised his eyebrows at the specifically interesting article. It read in bold print: 'Local Cat Has Litter of Rattlesnakes'.

"Huh. I didn't know the Enquirer had issues all the way out here," Sam remarked dryly.

Dean rolled his eyes in annoyance, snatching the paper back. "Drink your coffee and wake up already," he snapped. He bit into his donut and chewed it, then promptly spit it out. "Ugh! That's rock-hard!" He picked up the donut and tossed it onto the table. There was a rather disturbing 'clunk' as the stale pastry hit the wooden surface.

Sam raised an eyebrow at the donut, which sat innocently on the table where Dean had tossed it. Sam looked up at Dean and smirked. "Now _that_ is weird."

"Shut up," Dean growled, but lovingly. Then he suddenly got all serious, and Sam knew that Dean was going to keep pressing the cat and snakes thing. Dean had slipped right into hunter mode. "Look, Sammy…"

"Sam," the younger brother said out of habit.

Dean continued without pause, "Cats giving birth to snakes is an evil omen."

Sam nearly choked on his coffee. Okay, now noway this was a coincidence. Last night he has a new nightmare warning and the next day he and Dean find an article about an evil omen? Not good.

"Evil omen of what?"

"Evil omen of…evil…" Dean faltered with a shrug. "I dunno, could mean anything. The point is that it's bad."

"Okay, well, how do we now the story's legit?" Sam asked pointedly.

"Well, let's go find out," Dean said taking the paper and his coffee as he got up and headed for the door.

* * *

Victor Gavin entered the chapel, to guards on the exterior of the door and about ten positioned on the interior room. The pews were laid out before him, dotted with praying inmates. Some were on their knees, others were reading quietly from the Bible. Off to the side, a few of the Muslim inmates read from the Q'uran and prayed as well. Victor's eyes scanned the scene with a mocking glint in his eyes. His gaze fell on the small crucifix nailed to the whitewashed wall directly in front of him. To that, Victor gave a low chuckle.

At this, a couple of the worshipers in the pews turned to look at him, and their faces were immediately sour. Gavin was not welcome in general, but here was where he found the most hostility. But in one face he didn't find hate. That of a young white man whose head was nearly bald, a thin layer of blonde peach fuzz covering it. Upon becoming aware of Gavin's presence, he rose and walked quietly over to Gavin.

"Did you do as I told you?" Gavin asked as he started to head to the rear left of the chapel.

"Yeah," the younger inmate replied bluntly in a strong Texan accent.

Gavin smiled chillingly in satisfaction. "Finally," he breathed. He glanced over at the young, blank faced inmate. "You're gonna be thanked for this, Tucker. Rest assured."

"Yeah," Tucker replied just as indifferently as before, if not more so.

Now Gavin paused, looking at Tucker rather suspiciously. Tucker stared right back, neither passively nor defiantly. He just stared, like he didn't care about Gavin at all.

"You know, Tucker, I get the feeling that you think I'm crazy," Gavin stated. There was no anger in his voice. But there was smugness and amusement.

"No," Tucker replied with the slight shake of the head.

"But you don't believe in my power, do you?" Gavin asked lightly, apparently already knowing the answer.

Tucker looked straight at him, and finally some emotion and life seemed to be in his brown eyes. "I don't believe in much of anything anymore, Vic," he replied.

Gavin smirked at him and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, you just watch, Tucker," he advised shrewdly. They started to walk again. Gavin was the one who was actually paying attention to where they were going; Tucker's eyes had gone sort of dead again, just glancing at Gavin as he spoke. "You're gonna be in for a big surprise soon…" He gave a grin to himself at the twisted thoughts running through his twisted head. "This prison…this country…this whole frickin' world is in for a real big one…" he proclaimed wistfully.

* * *

so what do you think? Like it? Yeah, I know, too soon to tell. Reviews are VERY appreciated! 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Switch

author: Roony

rating: T

disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

summary: A convicted killer John put away uses dark magic to switch bodies with Sam.

A/N: hey guys! awesome to see a good response to this story. I really am getting into it. again, reviews appreciated!

* * *

Chapter Two: Ritual

The article had given the address of the cat's owners, Mr. and Mrs. Reeder. The address was in the near by town of Coolidge, so it was easy to locate. So, the brothers were currently driving down a simple suburban lane, searching for the Reeder house. Dean had popped in an AC/DC tape, and therefore Sam was getting increasingly irritated. He was trying to pick out 'the white house with black shutters', as the article had named the house, in a sea of white houses with black shutters while trying to figure out what his creepy dream had meant and what it had to do with cats birthing rattlesnakes.

Finally, Sam could take no more screeching guitar and screaming vocals. "Would you turn that _off_?" he snapped.

"What? Afraid it'll scar the innocent school-kids or something?" Dean retorted irritably. He hated it when Sam complained about his tunes.

"No, it's giving me a headache," Sam snapped sharply, "Turn it off!"

Dean moved his hand to the 'eject button, but he stopped short of hitting it, giving Sam a pointed look. "Can I get a 'please'?" he asked sarcastically, ignoring the fierce glare he was getting.

In response, Sam reached over and turned the tape off himself. Then he tried returned to his side of the car, arms folded crossly over his chest.

But Dean just shrugged it off. He was used to Sammy having bouts of grumpiness every now and then. "You know, we really need to work on your people skills."

Sam didn't respond. He didn't mean to be bitchy with Dean, he really didn't. But there was too much going on in his head for him to be Mr. Sunshine today. And he was still trying to shake the feelings the dream had left him with. It wasn't a good sign that the dream was still affecting him after a couple hours of being awake. Sam was aware of this, and it only made him more worried and on edge, thus making it easier for him to be pissed off. And, since Dean was the only other person around, Sam couldn't help but take it out on him.

"Hey, I think this is it," Dean announced with feigned optimism, snapping Sam out of his broody thoughts.

The guys got out of the Impala to stand before a nice suburban home. Two floors, chain-link fence, wide front porch, and semi-green grass. All very normal, very inconspicuous.

"Huh," Dean said, observing his surroundings, "Never guess a four-legged freak of nature lived right behind that screen door, would ya?"

"You never did like cats," Sam remarked sagely as he opened the fence.

"Hey, cats I don't mind," Dean replied as he followed, "It's ones that pop out snakes I have issues with."

The brothers were halfway across the gravel path to the house when a stout man with graying black hair appeared behind the screen door.

"Can I help you boys?" he asked politely. He didn't seem to think it at all odd that the two young men had just rolled up to his home and walked right up to it.

Dean switched into his con mode immediately. "Yes sir, I'm John Raines, this is Mark Howell," he said, quickly coming up with random aliases, "We're with the ASPCA. Are you Mr. Reeder?"

The man cocked his head at Dean's introduction. He looked from Dean to Sam, sizing them up. Then with shrugged and opened the screen door, waving them over. "Guess you'll want to see Bitsy then, right?" In response to the blank look he received from the brothers, Mr. Reeder explained, "Our cat, that's her name."

"Um, if you wouldn't mind," Sam replied politely as the brothers started up the wooden steps to the porch.

* * *

Tucker stood next to the doorway of a small room in the chapel. Two guards were stationed on either side of him. They glared at him every now and then, but Tucker didn't seem to notice or care. He just stared off into space with blank eyes.

The doorway was curtained off from view. The room had once been a small storage closet, but that had all changed once Victor Gavin had moved into the Florence State Prison of Arizona. Victor Gavin was known for being one of the most self-incriminating defendants in the history of criminal courts. However, he was also known for one of the best advocates for the first amendment, specifically the right to freedom of worship. Victor had made a huge break in national prison policy regarding a prisoner's rights to worship. Victor had even managed to get a separate room for his religious practices, even getting the curtain to give him some privacy. He was under video camera surveillance inside, but Victor didn't worry about that. He knew that whoever looked at the tapes of his practices would be too ignorant of his chosen practice to get him in any sort of trouble.

The only problem wit this was that Victor's chosen religion was the dark arts. Victor Gavin was in fact very skilled in black magic.

So there, in the small room he'd managed to obtain, all by himself, Victor sat before an inverted pentagram he'd painted on the floor. It wasn't in blood, the preferred fluid for the ritual, because the guards searched the room before and after his sessions. He'd had to make due with sweat instead, which was the next best thing. To his left was a stack of ancient books.

Victor picked up one and lifted the dusty green cover of 'Crime and Punishment' to find the book hollowed out Inside were now six black candles, a book of matches, and a sprig of belladonna. Gavin nodded, pleased. Tucker had done well.

* * *

The Winchesters were led into a rather quaint home, obviously the house of a couple of retirees. There were out of date chairs in the living room, framed pictures of the kids and grandkids dotting the walls like stars in the sky.

"Hey, Gina!" Mr. Reeder called into the kitchen, "There're some boys here from PETA or something' like that here to see Bitsy!"

A woman, almost as stout as her husband, came into the living room with a rather puzzled look on her face. In her arms was a plump white cat, Bitsy. Mrs. Reeder looked from Dean to Sam rather concernedly. "What do you want with Bitsy?" she asked cautiously.

"Ma'am, we understand that something rather odd occurred to you cat three days ago?" Dean asked politely, apparently set on not actually saying the name 'Bitsy'.

Mrs. Reeder became a little more relaxed, now that she knew what her visitors were here about. "Oh, yes. I should've known something like this would happen after they ran that story in the paper." She suddenly turned to her husband with a hand on her hip, the other one holding her cat. "What's the matter with you, Roy? Ask our guests to sit awhile!"

Mr. Reeder lowered his head in meek apology. "I…didn't know how long they'd be staying…" he tried pitifully.

Dean had to smirk at the exchange. Roy Reeder seemed was a pretty big guy, like an ex-linebacker size, yet he was obviously no match for whatever his wife had to hit him with.

Gina Reeder shook her head at her spouse, but held back her wrath while there were guests around. She smiled at the boys pleasantly. "Please, have a seat. Would you like some lemonade?"

"Yes, please," Sam answered with a polite smile.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Dean replied, plopping down onto the nearest chair.

Mrs. Reeder nodded and turned to the kitchen, gesturing rather threateningly that Mr. Reeder accompany her.

As soon as he was sure that the Reeders were out of earshot, Dean leaned over to Sam and remarked, "If I am ever that whipped, shoot me."

Sam smirked. "I don't know… It'd be pretty fun to watch."

"I'm serious, Sam. If some chick gets me in an apron fixing lemonade, just put a .45 at the back of my head and pull the trigger. Put me out of my misery."

"So…if that happened, does that mean that I'd get your car?" Sam asked thoughtfully.

Dean stared at him for a minute. Then he sat back, looking like he'd been scared into seriousness. "Okay, never mind. Let me be whipped. And when I die, that car is getting buried with me just so you can't have it."

Sam raised an eyebrow at his brother. "You're obsessive."

"I am not," Dean defended huffily, "I'm just protective. No way in hell am I letting my car get driven through a house again."

* * *

The candles were lit and stationed at each point of the pentagram, the belladonna as placed in the center of it. Gavin sat on his knees now before the setting, arms clasped together in prayer.

He spoke slowly and clearly as his eyes glinted with anticipation and the natural high one gets when praying. "Live morf sureviled noitatpmet otni ton su deal dna su tsniaga ssapssert ohw esoht evigrof ew sa sessapssert ruo su evigrof dna daerb yliad ruo yad siht su evig nevaeh ni si ti sa htrae no enod eb lliw yht emoc modgnik yht eman yht eb dewollah nevaeh ni tra ohw rehtaf rou."

He took a deep breath, having finished the prayer. He unclasped his hands and rolled up the blue sleeves of his prison uniform. On each of his wrists was a black tattoo of a circle. He paused, glaring at them with accusation and anger. Then he clasped his hands together again, this time speaking in English.

He spoke with a reverence and formality that didn't suit him. "Ancient Darkness, hear your servant. Deliver me from the hands of my captors. They commit blasphemy against your power, claiming authority over when I live and when I die. My life and its end lies in your hands and yours alone." He paused and looked to the pentagram and waited for a response, but didn't get one.

Gavin was suddenly nervous. Suppose he was abandoned? Perhaps he would be fully punished for his failings. He pushed those doubtful feelings aside. No. He wouldn't be left behind. He was needed.

"The time of the equinox approaches," he went on, "I, your servant, will serve you as passionately as I did in days passed. I will unlock the gates and release you upon this world. Yet I am a mere mortal, cursed thrice. Unbind the gift of power that you generously bestowed upon me, and I will rise into your service once more."

He glanced at the pentagram again, more nervously than last time. The belladonna in the center of the pentagram suddenly burst into flames. Gavin's eyes flickered with relief and wicked pleasure as the smoke from the spontaneous flames expanded to a physically impossible amount, twisting into half-formed shapes.

* * *

"So, what exactly happened?" Sam asked as he set his glass of lemonade on the nearby wooden table.

Mrs. Reeder sat on a large comfortable chair across from the Winchesters with Bitsy purring contentedly on her lap. "Well, on Tuesday I went into the kitchen and found Bitsy here on the kitchen floor with a bunch of little newborn rattlers down there with her," she said. She sounded only a little uncomfortable telling the story, probably because she'd told the story to the reporter earlier.

"They were just there on the floor?" Dean asked, a bit of skepticism in his voice. Rattlesnakes were native to the area; there was a chance that this wasn't a supernatural occurrence. It could've been a bad prank or just a weird coincidence.

Mrs. Reeder shifted in her chair slightly, looking down at her pet with a concern brought by the memory. "No…they were…suckling Bitsy. Just like a litter of kittens."

_Okay, that just might do it_, Dean thought as he looked over at the content feline. The cat probably had little significance now; it had served its purpose as an omen, and would most likely have no other strange occurrences surrounding it.

"Well, I just about panicked then," Mrs. Reeder went on, "Rattlers are fanged and poisonous even when they're born. So I called for Roy and he knocked them around with a broom. I picked up Bitsy. She'd gotten a couple of nips, but we keep an anti-venom around just in case and I took care of her. Roy killed all of the snakes." She sighed and patted Bitsy affectionately. Then she looked up at the boys kindly. "Is that all you have to know?"

"Yes, I think that should just about do it, Mrs. Reeder," Dean said as he stood to leave.

"Thank you for your time," Sam added as they headed for the door.

"Not at all," Mrs. Reeder said, waving them good-bye.

* * *

Victor Gavin watched with delight as the tattoos on his wrists flickered in and out of existence. Yes…he could feel the power returning to him… The flames on the candles and in the center of the pentagram blazed brighter and brighter. The black smoke twisted around Gavin like it had a mind of its own, every now and then flickering with channels of white surges of power.

"That's it," Gavin said, breathing in the smoke and heat like the scent of a good wine, "Give it to me, come on…"

All of a sudden, the curtain behind him was thrown open and three guards burst in. The lights had burned too bright, attracting all the wrong attention. Gavin whirled around, his eyes filled with rage and fear.

"No!" he cried out as one guard grabbed him and shoved him onto the concrete floor. One guard stamped out the flames in the center while the other put out the candles. All of the power that once filled the room vanished instantaneously. "NO!" Victor struggled, which turned out to be a mistake. Prison guards weren't allowed to carry weapons, but they didn't need them to control the prisoners. Gavin was kicked hard in the side and slammed against the hard floor. He flinched at the hit, and soon felt warm blood trickling down his face.

Though they were being held out of his eyesight, Gavin knew that the tattoos on his wrists had reformed.

* * *

more on the way. please review! 


	3. Chapter 3

okay, at this point, I have some confessions to make:

first, disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. shocking, eh?

Also, I must admit that the use of sweat and belladonna in the ritual mentioned in the last chapter are all 'borrowed' from Stephen King short stories, specifically from the collection 'Night Shift'. As to whether that info is accurate, I don't know.

The cat giving birth to serpents as a bad omen is something I 'borrowed' from an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

okay, now maybe I won't get sued…

again, thank you reviewers! I am loving this story, hope you are too!

* * *

Chapter Three: Differences

"Okay, any way we can tell what the omen's warning us about?" Sam asked as he entered the Impala, Dean already in the driver's seat.

Dean shook his head. "No… We'll just have to wait for more, I guess. Maybe check out Dad's journal."

Sam considered telling Dean about the dream. Maybe there was more to it than he thought. Maybe it was another clue about what was going on.

Just then, Dean's phone rang, cutting off Sam's thoughts. Dean snatched the cell up immediately, and Sam noted the eagerness with which he moved. They hadn't heard from Dad in a while, and Dean was apparently expecting this to be him. Sam couldn't say that he shared the same feelings. He did wonder about his dad at times, wondering if he was all right, but it wasn't as often as he knew it should've been.

"Hello?" Dean answered, holding back from saying 'Dad?'.

"Is this Dean? Dean Winchester?" an unfamiliar older woman's voice came over.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, the disappointment nearly overwhelming. "Yes," he replied simply. He wondered who this woman was. Suddenly a sickening fear settled in his stomach. Was this someone calling about Dad? Some hospital worker who found this number on his cell and was trying to contact a family member?

"Who is it?" Sam asked curiously. Dean held up a hand for him to wait, giving him an irritated look. He didn't mean it, but the worry in his gut came out as anger because Sam's talking could keep him from hearing whatever the woman had to say.

"My name is Sarah Franklin. I was trying to reach your father, but all I got was his answering machine. On the recording, he gave your number if someone needed help…" the woman on the line explained.

Dean sighed, the fear leaving him. Just another job. Dad was probably fine. Actually, he should probably stop thinking about Dad and focus on the new hunt. It was certainly less painful. "Yeah, that's right," he replied, "What do you need help with?"

"There are…strange things going on," Sarah Franklin explained vaguely, yet urgency was emphasized in her tone, "Something that has to be dealt with immediately. I need you to come here right away."

"Uhm, well, where are you, ma'am?" Dean asked, trying not to sound too unpromising. They were already investigating something. Sarah Franklin's problem might have to take a backseat to whatever was going on in this town.

"Coolidge, Arizona," Sarah Franklin replied promptly.

Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Coolidge? Really?"

"Yes," she replied, adding, "Something terrible is going to happen. You have to stop it. Come meet with me and I'll explain."

She gave the address, and then said a quick goodbye, adding again a comment about how important it was that he get there, then hung up.

"What was that all about?" Sam asked confusedly.

Dean gave a quick rundown of the conversation as he pulled out and started toward Sarah Franklin's house.

"So she knows Dad?" Sam asked.

"I guess. She wasn't much for chitchat," Dean replied, "And she kept repeating herself, like she thought I was thick or something."

"Huh, that's weird," Sam remarked, "Usually people don't think that about you until they actually meet you."

"Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam finished. He was really milking the usual banter for all it was worth today. It distracted him, made him feel more relaxed. But, he knew that that was a selfish thing to do. They had to focus on the hunt.

"So maybe this has happened here before," Sam suggested, getting back to the important topic.

"Maybe. Check out Dad's journal on the way," Dean advised.

Sam obeyed, reaching down under his seat for the leather-bound book.

* * *

"You are a fucking jackass, you know that, Tucker?" Gavin growled to the younger man.

Tucker shrugged. "Not my fault," he responded simply.

The death-row inmates were out in a yard about the size of a football field that was fenced in by a twenty-foot high chain-link fence, the top of which was lined with barbed wire. There were watchtowers at each corner of the yard where two guards stood observing the prisoners, each armed with a rifle. The desert stretched out beyond the yard for what seemed like forever. The town of Florence was actually near by, but the massive prison blocked in from view, almost definitely a planned arrangement.

The prisoners mulled around, some playing cards, some tossing a football around. All of them stayed far away from Gavin and Tucker. Gavin was still suffering from the beating the guards had given him earlier, walking with a slight limp.

"You were supposed to be keeping watch, you little shit," Gavin snapped.

Tucker shrugged a shoulder. "I wasn't gonna stop 'em. They saw the lights and thought somethin' was up."

Gavin glared at him. "Funny how you never do shit…unless your sister's in trouble, right Tuck?" he said with a malicious smirk.

Tucker stopped for a minute and looked at Gavin. His body was perfectly relaxed, but his eyes burned with a fury that was a shock compared to the emptiness that normally filled them. But Gavin just kept smirking at him, unafraid. Finally, Tucker just looked away, eyes on the ground.

"But, I did get a little bit of something," Gavin went on, a little more optimistically, "Not much, but it just might be enough." Tucker didn't seem to be listening; he typically tuned out once Gavin started babbling about his magic. But, Gavin didn't stop, having no one else to boast to. "Just enough for one spell. Not one strong enough to break the curses…" He paused for a minute, thinking.

"I lost my appeal," Tucker stated abruptly.

Gavin looked at him angrily, pissed off that he'd been interrupted. "Do I look like I give a damn?"

Tucker raised and lowered a shoulder. "Just thought I'd tell somebody."

Gavin rolled his eyes. "And I thought they couldn't kill retards anymore," he remarked.

Tucker didn't seem to mind the insult much. Gavin went back to thinking for a moment. As his eyes scanned the yard, his gaze settled on some activity on the nearest watchtower. The guards were changing shift. Suddenly, Gavin gave a small smile, a glint of inspiration in his eyes. "I can't break the curses..." he said thoughtfully, "But there are loopholes…"

* * *

"Hey, looks like Dad's been here before," Sam told Dean when he found the right section in the journal, "About ten years ago."

"Yeah?" Dean said, interest peaked. "Must've been one of his long weekends," he remarked offhandedly, "What was he hunting?"

"Victor Gavin," Sam replied. In the journal there were some notes jotted down, but most of the information came from newspaper articles that had been taped to the book. "He was into black magic. Killed five people in ritualistic sacrifices. He was trying to open some portal..."

"Lemme guess," Dean interjected, "To Hell, right?"

"Yup," Sam replied with a nod.

"Figures," Dean said with a snort, "It's never a portal to Disneyland or something. Typical 'end the world' nutcase. Why can't they ever get more creative?" Dean shook his head, then went back to the serious stuff. "Where was the portal?"

Sam scanned the pages. "Dad didn't find it. And it looks like Victor Gavin ever did either, but I think he got caught just in time."

"What'd Dad do to him?" Dean asked interestedly. The question had arisen many times in the past what to do with an evil human. He wanted to know how his dad handled things, sort of as a guideline. Personally, he didn't see how being human got you a free pass. In Dean's opinion, if you acted like a monster, you should be taken care of like a monster. In fact, to Dean, evil humans were worse than evil creatures. The demons couldn't really help it; they were created to be evil. Humans chose to be.

"The police got to him first," Sam explained, a sort of superior tone in his voice that earned him a glare from Dean. Sam saw things differently. In his mind, humans were, to a point, innocent. They were on a higher plane than the monsters. And to kill them, no matter what they'd done, was murder and just as evil.

"Bet they couldn't hold on to him for long," Dean said pointedly. Let Sam have his ethics. Reality would conquer it. People who practiced black magic aren't just arrested by the cops without causing some chaos and carnage.

"Maybe not," Sam allowed, "But Dad has some spells written here. I think he used a binding spell to take away Gavin's power. Once Gavin was convicted-which didn't take very long because of the way he acted in court…"

"How so?"

"According to the article, he stood up in the middle of a witness's testimony and proclaimed 'those fuckers' deaths were the only things they'd ever done that were worth a shit'. Then he flashed the jury."

"Yeah, that'd pretty much do it," Dean commented dryly.

"Anyway, once he was convicted, Dad put some back-up curses on him."

"What kind? The 'be good or your nads shrivel up' one?" Dean asked with a slightly sadistic smirk.

"First, he cursed Gavin with a modified biding spell so that Gavin's body could never leave his prison. Then he cast another one so that even if Gavin got his powers back, they couldn't touch the prison."

Dean gave a satisfied smile. "Sounds like Dad did a pretty good job," he said pointedly. Dad had put a lot of thought into those spells and come up with a perfect system to keep Gavin down. Not even Sam could deny that.

"Yeah," Sam admitted, "But he wasn't alone."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

"This is really advanced magic. Dad had to have had some help," Sam explained. He knew that their dad was good, but not _this_ good. These spells were incredibly advanced by themselves, but they also had to be compatible with each other for all of them to work simultaneously.

"You don't know that," Dean shot back angrily. He hated how Sam had absolutely no faith in their father. It was a pretty shitty attitude to have.

"Fine, whatever," Sam declared crossly, slamming the journal shut. He couldn't argue with Dean about Dad right now. It was a bad enough day already. But he knew for a fact that their Dad couldn't have taken down Victor Gavin on his own. If Dean didn't want to cut the hero worship for about ten seconds and realize the obvious, fine. Sam wasn't going to waste his time trying to convince Dean. He knew from experience that it would be pointless. But whoever had helped Dad could still be nearby; the person might even know what to do now.

Dean looked over at his moody brother with a mixture of annoyance and concern. Sam was broody now and then, and Dean couldn't blame him; his girlfriend had been murdered right in front of him just a few months ago. He was actually impressed that Sam had managed to deal with it as well as he had. But today was different. There was something about Sammy that was sending red flags up in big brother's head. But Sam wasn't letting on what it was. He seemed determined to hide it from Dean. "Man, what is _with_ you today?"

"Nothing," Sam replied too quickly. Dean saw right through it; Sam wasn't that good of a liar in general, but whatever was bugging him now was making him even worse at it.

"Oh, well that must be why you're being such a ray of sunshine today," Dean remarked sarcastically, letting Sam know immediately that he was caught. Dean slipped some dry humor in when he could, but he wanted to get through to Sam. "Come on. You're having more mood swings than that crazy chick in 'Misery'. What is going on?"

Sam hesitated. He hated it when Dean made him squirm; he'd inherited the skill from Dad. Dad could always tell when they were lying, and he could always get them to come clean.

The dream was what was making Sam act this way, and he knew it. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to tell Dean about it yet. And, despite what his instincts were telling him, he didn't think that the dream was very significant. But the look Dean was giving him right now told Sam that it didn't matter if he thought the dream was important or not; it was time to spill his guts.

"I had this dream…" Sam started, knowing that he was about to get a 'psychic boy' comment.

"A 'shining' dream?" Dean asked, just as Sam had expected.

"It's not the 'shining'," Sam stated tiredly. He really didn't like being compared to a Stephen King novel. "They're…warnings."

"Whatever," Dean said dismissively. They could have the debate over the exact label of Sam's psychic stuff later. "What happened in the dream?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know… it was all pretty vague. It was dark…there was a mirror…"

"A mirror?" Dean said curiously, "That could be important."

"How?" Sam asked skeptically.

"Mirrors are the windows to the soul," Dean stated matter-of-factly. Sam gave Dean a strange look that he didn't catch. Not only did the sentence not make much sense, the words were too poetic for Dean

"You just made that up," Sam accused lightly, raising an eyebrow.

Dean shook his head. "Have a little more faith in me, Sammy. I know what I'm talking about," he defended, but not angrily. "Mirrors symbolically and ritualistically view into a person's soul. Don't ask me how that actually works," he admitted, "But that's what I know."

"Okay," Sam said, "How is that significant?"

"Beats me," Dean replied plainly, "It's _your_ dream. So what else happened?"

"Not much," Sam answered, "My face started to melt, and I got super-creeped out, but otherwise, not much."

"Well, I would too," Dean said comfortingly, "I mean, imagine if _my_ pretty face got messed up. Dream or no dream, I'd be huddled in a corner for about a week." Sam chuckled. He liked that Dean was still being Dean, making him laugh. He'd felt so shitty after that dream-and a part of him still did-that he was glad to share some laughs with his brother. But of course, Dean was also being Dean in that he was concerned for his little brother. "So anything else? You hear anyone chanting 'redrum' or something?"

Sam shook his head with a smirk. "No, not 'redrum'." He left the other half of the sentence open, waiting for the question that Dean might or might not ask. He knew he shouldn't be avoiding the subject, but he couldn't help it. He felt uncomfortable when he talked about his 'shining' or whatever the hell it was, but bringing up where it fit in the big puzzle of things was even worse. And, of course, the subject of Max would come up. Maybe openly, but it would be dwelling under the surface in the minds of both brothers.

Dean did catch the missing piece of Sam's words, just as his little brother had dreaded, but known he would. "Did you hear someone chanting something else?" he asked skeptically. A part of him really hoped that Sammy hadn't. If he had, chances were that it was some obscure warning that didn't make sense immediately. Then it would turn into a mystery, and Dean freaking hated mysteries. He hated anything that wasn't boldfaced and honest about itself. Dean was aware that chances were, Sam had had an important warning in his dream, but Dean half-wished that he just hadn't entered this conversation. For Dean, the unknown future could remain as unknown as it wanted. Dream warnings that left cryptic clues behind about the future were a bitch to deal with. You had to walk on eggshells all the time. 'What if the message meant that?' 'What if we missed this?' On and on. Eventually you went crazy trying to guess what was destined to happen.

"Yeah. 'One like you'," Sam answered, waiting for Dean's reaction. He knew Dean didn't like nor was very good at mysteries, but he knew that Dean would quickly come to the same conclusion he had.

"What does that mean? 'One like you'?" Dean asked rather critically. Not critical to Sam, but to whatever had left such a stupid message behind. "Why's it always have to be some kind of game? Why can't they ever just come out and say something right out?"

"'They'?" Sam quoted confusedly.

"Yeah, you know, 'they'," Dean repeated, as though it were obvious, "Whoever emails that stuff into your head. The Powers That Be or whatever."

"Have you been watching 'Angel' again?" Sam teasingly accused, tipped off by the title Dean had used.

"No!" Dean defended. It was a good try, but not a successful one. Dean crumbled under the look Sam gave him, scowling. "Shut up."

Sam courteously pretended to wipe his mouth to hide the snicker. He didn't bring up the three words from his dream again, but he felt no guilt about it. Dean had sidetracked himself. Besides, Sam told himself, Dean wasn't every good at puzzles anyway. Though, Sam seemed committed to not acknowledge the fact that deep down, he didn't want Dean to figure it out. If Dean did, then they'd have to talk about it. Not just the casual discussion with the occasional Haley Joel joke, but actually get into it. Sam didn't want that. The usual conversations were enough; they'd practically become routine by now, and that was fine. But any deeper, and it would just be too much.

Sam having his premonitions made him and Dean different on a strange and uncomfortable level. The typical differences were fine, sure. But this wasn't the same thing. Sam could be the smart researcher brother, and Dean could be the smart-ass gunfighter brother. But Sam couldn't be the 'gifted' brother with visions and Dean couldn't just be the brother along for the ride. Sam knew that Dean could kick some major ass, that he was a good man, and an even greater hunter. But when it came to the premonition stuff, Dean was just out of his element. And Sam knew that he himself was to, but he didn't really have much of a choice but to deal with it.

* * *

Now some tasty tidbits of 'extra' info:

Florence State Prison is a real prison in Arizona, and it does have a death row.

The stuff about Coolidge, Florence, and Tombstone (the town I vaguely mentioned in the 1st chapter) is all geographically accurate.

The weird prayer that I had Victor Gavin use in the previous chapter was the Lord's Prayer backwards, something that is often used in black masses.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey guys! So sorry it took so long to update-just a string of bad luck. exams, power outages, getting grounded, just about every obstacle possible. But here we are:

* * *

Chapter Four: The Portal

Sarah Franklin was at the door when the brothers arrived, undoubtedly waiting for them. She looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties, a tall and willowy woman with long silver hair. Her face was rather ageless, yet her expression was anxious and stressed.

"Winchesters?" she asked cautiously, opening her screen door just a crack.

"Yes, ma'am," Dean replied, trying to be friendly, but the woman's uneasy demeanor threw him off, "I'm Dean and this is Sam."

"Right, yes, come in," she said hurriedly, only relaxing an inch as she opened the door all the way to show them in.

Upon entering the house, Sam crinkled his nose slightly at a familiar scent. He glanced about the hallway, looking into a dining room on the left and a living room on the right. There were pewter bowls in each room, wisps of smoke billowing out. Inside them, Sam deduced from the smell, were sprigs of sage burning. Well, this was interesting… Sage was known as a protecting herb that kept evil spirits away. He was fairly certain that Sarah Franklin wasn't ignorant of this. He eyed her curiously as she led them back into a small kitchen.

"How did you know to contact our dad?" Dean asked interestedly as he took a seat.

"I'm acquainted with him," Sarah Franklin replied shortly as she sat across the table from the brothers.

Sam brightened up. "You were the one that helped him, weren't you?" he said knowingly, rather excited to have found the mysterious assistant and to have realized that Sarah Franklin was more than she seemed. "You helped him bind Victor Gavin."

Dean, having not followed Sam's thought process, scowled at him. He refused to go along with Sam's theory, convinced that Dad wouldn't have needed someone else to help him.

However, he was forced to accept otherwise when Sarah Franklin took a deep breath and admitted, "Yes. I was." She sat back in her chair, her hand clasping a pendant around her neck. It was a plaited symbol, with three triangles pointed downward. She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped, her gaze becoming fixed on something behind the brothers.

The brothers turned to see a young girl, about fifteen, standing in the doorway. She seemed very perplexed to find the two of them sitting in the kitchen.

"Um…Grandma Sarah? Why're you burning that stuff again? And who're they?" she asked confusedly. Her eyes fell on the brothers, not sure what to make of them.

"Oh, Bethany…" Sarah said, quickly standing and walking over to the girl to usher her away. "This is Sam and Dean, they're…" she paused, trying to find an appropriate explanation, "The sons of a friend. We were just talking. Now, why don't you go back to you're homework?"

Sarah got her granddaughter out of the room before the girl could ask any more questions. Dean watched the interaction in mild interest. Sarah had not only essentially not explained what he and Sam were doing here, she'd also completely dodged any mention about the burning sage. Dean recognized these tactics as ones that his family also used in their line of work. It showed why Sarah had been so vague on the phone. She hadn't wanted Bethany to overhear anything too inexplicable.

The older woman stood in the doorway, watching her granddaughter go up the rickety stairs, intent on keeping the conversation with Sam and Dean on hold until she was certain Bethany was out of earshot. Then she turned back to them.

"I have been practicing magic for forty years," she stated with a hint of pride, but still in a quiet voice, as though she was afraid Bethany might still somehow hear her on the second floor. "I was familiar with your father, and called him when the killings started ten years ago. He discovered that it was Victor Gavin who was behind all of it, and with his help I bound Victor Gavin's powers."

Dean nodded. Okay, they'd already picked up on that. They needed new information. "Why did you call?"

Sarah hesitated, nervously glancing again toward the staircase, then turned back to the boys, her arms folded over her chest. "I'm watching after Bethany while her parents are away in California," she said quietly. Dean could see where this was going, but let Sarah ease into it. She was already very stressed, and what she was revealing was only making her worse. "At her mother's request, my granddaughter doesn't know about…about the full power of my beliefs. Do not ask Bethany any questions." She said the last part not as a request, but a serious demand, her gray eyes told them.

"We understand," Sam replied, his face letting her know that she could trust them, "What happened?"

Sarah looked at them both very closely, just to be sure that they would keep their word. Then she began to explain…

_There were thirty students in the sixth period biology class at Coolidge high school. About half of them were looking down at their lab tables in disgust. The dead eyes of 15 American bullfrogs stared right back at them._

_Though they were already through two-thirds of the dissection, Bethany West was not feeling any less grossed out or guilty than when they had began. Her Grandma Sarah had always stressed to her how precious life was, how it should be preserved. It was bad enough to kill an animal, but to take apart its corpse seemed barbaric. But Bethany needed the grade, so she'd swallowed her disgust and ethics to take up the scalpel. _

_"This is so sick," her lab partner, Maria, said for the thousandth time._

_Bethany would have agreed, but as she stared at the open frog body before her, its tiny bones and tissues fully exposed, she honestly felt that if she opened her mouth, she'd puke._

_Suddenly, there was a short shriek from the back of the room. Everyone turned to see Ashley, a tall blonde girl, jump away from her table, her lab partner Beatrice staring at her._

_"What?" Beatrice asked confusedly._

_Ashley pointed at the frog. "It moved!" she cried out._

_A couple students chuckled, but Mr. Rourke, a balding thin teacher of twenty years, did not seem at all amused. "Miss Zentarski, if you're feeling ill, go to the nurse's office and cease interrupting the lesson."_

_Ashley looked like that was exactly what she was going to do, warily eyeing her frog. Just then, another shout accompanied by an unapologetic curse rang out. Mark Lowe and Dan Havel were now staring at their frog, arms up in an instinctual defense move. _

_"Oh, very funny boys," Mr. Rourke said sarcastically, "For that colorful word, Mr. Lowe, I'll send you down to the…"_

_But Mr. Rourke was soon too distracted by the sight that met him. Besides, anything he would've continued to say wouldn't have been heard over the collective cries of terror from the students as their dead, dissected frogs started flopping themselves off of their backs. Some classmates just gawked stupidly at the sight, while others yelled and ran around, panicking._

_Soon the frogs were hopping around, not at all inhibited by the lack of most of their internal organs. They leapt about like normal, everyday, live whole frogs. They bounced contentedly about, from desk to desk, and soon were hopping, amongst the increased shrieks of panic, at the students as well._

_The terrified teenagers ran for the door screaming, their hands held protectively over their heads. Some ducked under desks, but were soon chased out by the persistent undead amphibians. As Bethany was rushed along with the river of fellow frightened students, she saw one of the frogs settled comfortably on a desk. It was quite placidly eating the removed organs of one of his brethren. Bethany screamed in horror._

There was a pause when Sarah had finished relating her granddaughter's story. Naturally, Dean broke it with his usual joke to lighten the mood. "Wow. I'm never going to look at Kermit the same way again."

"As soon as Bethany told me, and after I read a story about a cat giving birth to serpents, I knew what was happening. I called," Sarah finished quietly. She was obviously very concerned for her granddaughter, and also about what the frog incident meant.

"Is it Victor Gavin again?" Sam ventured.

Sarah shook her head, and she seemed a little insulted. "No, not quite. He isn't a threat; my magic holds strong."

"Then it's the portal?" Sam guessed.

"Yes," Sarah replied with a nod, "It's ready to be opened. These things that are happening, the portal is the cause."

"It did this before then, when Gavin tried to open it?"

Sarah Franklin shook her head. "No, it didn't."

Dean's brow furrowed. "Wait, why not?"

"The portal can only be opened once," Sarah explained, "One week of an equinox in a certain year. Victor Gavin was ten years early."

Now Dean smirked. "Wait. This guy went through all this trouble, ended up loosing everything, and he was a decade off?"

Sarah eyed him, her face severe. "Five people are dead because of Victor Gavin's stupidity. They died slowly and painfully, and in vain. The irony of the situation does not out weigh its tragedy."

Dean's smirk quickly disappeared. Sam cast him a sympathetic look. Sarah Franklin was an extremely serious woman; her severity reminded Sam more than a little of Dad. "The equinox is this week," he stated, distracting Sarah from Dean, "And you say this is the year it's meant to be opened."

"Yes."

Dean seemed to feel brave enough to stay in the conversation. "Well, can't you just make with the hocus pocus and keep it sealed?" he asked pointedly.

"No, I can't," Sarah replied simply.

Sam raised an eyebrow. Why couldn't she? Sarah seemed perfectly coherent in the magical arts. "But the spells you cast on Gavin..."

"That was ten years ago," she snapped at him rather irritably. She sighed and put a hand to her temple. "I'm old now," she admitted, "I can barely keep up the protection charms I've cast over this house."

Dean sat back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. He gave Sam an 'oh well' look and shrugged. He felt they could handle the situation without Sarah's magic. They hadn't needed it before, right?

Sam wasn't so sure. This wasn't a demon that they could simply exorcize. They were dealing with ancient magic. "What can we do to stop it?" he asked Sarah.

"The portal cannot be opened by itself," she explained, "Someone must perform a ritual to open it. You must find the portal and stop anyone who attempts to open it within the next week. After the equinox, the portal will be closed forever."

Dean nodded. "Sounds simple enough. But how do we find the portal?"

"There will be more signs," Sarah said, "The portal wants to be opened. It will send clues about its location. Follow the signs, and you will find it."

"What about Victor Gavin?" Sam asked, "Do you think he might know where the portal is?"

Sarah paused, looking at him concernedly. "I hope not," she said sincerely. "If he does…he will try to find a way to open it. Though…I do wonder if he's even alive anymore," she added thoughtfully. In response to the questioning looks she received from the brothers, she said, "He was sentenced to death. I didn't bother to pay attention to when the sentence was to be carried out."

"Well, if he is still alive, do you know where we can find him?" Sam asked. Gavin could prove a useful asset. If they could get him to cooperate, they could get closer to where the portal was.

"I suppose he's at the prison in Florence," Sarah said simply, "That's only a few miles from here. But I wouldn't recommend going to him. He won't help you; he wants the portal open."

"She's right, Sammy," Dean said, "No point to it."

Sam nodded in agreement. He wasn't entirely sure that the option of using Gavin should be so quickly dismissed, but they had little choice. They had to stay here to follow the clues. If they took a trip to Florence, they might miss something.

"Did Gavin live around here?" Dean asked Sarah, "Maybe there's stuff at his old house that could help us out."

Sarah shook her head. "I assume that he did, but I don't know for sure. You'll have to find that out on your own."

With that the brothers stood to leave. There was no reason to hang around, and Dean was certain that he really didn't want to be in Sarah's company any longer than he had to. "Well, we'll do just that," he said.

"I wish you good fortunes," she said as they left, "For all of our sakes."

Dean shook his head as he led the way out, getting more and more comfortable the further he got from Sarah Franklin.

"Well, she was real cheery, wasn't she?" he said cynically as they got to the car.

"So, we look for Victor's old house?" Sam suggested as he got in.

"I guess," Dean said uncertainly as he started up the engine. "We don't have much else to go on."

* * *

I love reviewers! 

Next Chapter: the Switch


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Finally! Sorry guys; the document manager was out of commission for a while. But now it's up and I can post.

hey, bit of promotion here: check out my Supernatural C2: 'Almost Episodes' for some other good Supernatural fics.

* * *

Chapter Five: Switch 

The Beatles were played at a considerate volume, giving a background sound to the mull of the clanking of dishes, calls for orders, rings of the cash register, and casual conversation of the small practically clichéd diner. It was about dinner time, and the usual customers mingled with those just passing through. The atmosphere was warm and comforting; save for the occasional mention of a devil cat five miles north or a mishap with some frogs up at the high school. But those comments were sporadically made and quickly silenced with teasing remarks, rolled eyes, and occasional mocking taps on the temple.

Sam rubbed his sore eyes, trying to quiet their protests of being forced to stare at the laptop screen for three hours straight. How could this possibly be so incredibly difficult? All they wanted was to find a house; was that really so much to ask? Well, apparently so, because after spending the rest of the day exhausting nearly every resource at their disposal, the Winchesters still didn't have any idea where Victor Gavin's old home was.

But how was that even possible? Coolidge just wasn't that big. And how could the police have never even found Gavin's place of residence? It just didn't make sense. Dad's journal had affirmed that Gavin had indeed lived in the area, but had given no more accurate a description than that. They'd even gone back to Sarah Franklin's house to ask if she knew where to go. But Sarah, who greeted the door rather sourly because Bethany was back downstairs and within hearing range, had snappishly told them that she'd never even laid eyes on Victor Gavin, let alone where he lived. Dean had gone to try his luck at chatting up with the locals, which had eventually turned up nothing. The locals didn't like to talk about the incidents with Victor Gavin anyway. So, Sam had gone to his typically faithful Internet, but alas, it was to no avail. And that was pretty damn impressive, not to mention extremely vexing.

"How's it coming, geek boy?" Dean asked, trying to be encouraging. The look on Sam's face told him everything. "Not so good, huh?"

Sam just shook his head. "I don't get it. I mean, we can find ancient runes in about an hour, exorcism rites in half that. But we look for a house, just one house in the middle of a small town, and suddenly we're looking for the Holy Grail. How is that possible?"

Dean looked thoughtful for a moment, chewing on his cheek. Sam just sat back, again rubbing his eyes, and closed his laptop in defeat. Sam truly gritted his teeth as he did it, aggravated that his normally decent research techniques (though he had never enjoyed the talent before now) had been bested by a mere address.

"Hey, I've got it," Dean piped up suddenly. Sam looked half-heartedly over at him, hoping to hear some good news. "Maybe Gavin used a protective charm to hid his stash."

Sam stared blankly at his brother for a minute. Then stated tersely, "You couldn't have thought of that three hours ago?"

Dean grinned back sheepishly. "I was caught up in the whirlwind of excitement," he tried pathetically.

Sam's eyes narrowed back rather dangerously, but an angel in tennis shoes, a green apron, and a nametag saved Dean any further malice from his younger brother.

"Care to hear the specials, boys?"

The friendly middle-aged redheaded waitress broke the moment, with many quiet thanks from Dean. Though the abrupt interruption made the fumbling for the menu a little awkward, Dean pulled it off all right. Sam didn't pick up the menu, he just sat back and looked at his laptop, half wondering if he should try to find the house again, half still pissed at both Dean and himself for not realizing the obvious possibility that Gavin had used magic to hide his place. And that wasn't all that was making him feel so crappy; yes, the dream from fourteen hours ago was still affecting him. And it was really starting to scare Sam. He was starting to think about putting his selfishness aside and start talking about it with Dean again.

"Burger, fries, and a coke," Dean ordered with a trademark smile. There was really no point to him even glancing at the menu, given that that was practically his entire diet, along with coffee and beer.

The waitress gave a nod as she quickly jotted it down and turned expectantly to Sam, who only shook his head. "I'm fine, thanks," he replied in an attempt to be friendly back for manner's sake, but he couldn't pull it off. But the waitress didn't seem to mind; she just gave a shrug and a quick 'well, all right', and was gone.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Sam turned back to the important conversation topics. "Well, if that's the case, than only one person knows where the house is:Victor Gavin."

Dean shook his head dismissively. Why did Sammy have to keep pushing that idea? Dean knew that he certainly wasn't enthusiastic about having to go up to the prison to chat with a sadistic Satanic psycho anytime soon. "First Sam, we don't even know if he's alive anymore."

"Yes we do," Sam corrected, tapping his laptop in explanation, "He's not due for the needle until Friday. We've got time."

Dean was perturbed that Sam had even bothered to look up Gavin's execution date, but decided to not get into that. "Okay, and what makes you think he'll do anything to help us? He wants the portal open, Sam. No way in hell is he going to do anything to stop it."

"Maybe we could somehow convince him…"

"Of what? If the portal opens before Friday, what're the chances they'll keep an execution going when all of Hell is being unleashed? Gavin's got nothing to loose, so there's nothing we can bait him with into helping us. Besides, we don't need to find the house that badly. It'd be nice to have it, but if we don't, we don't. We follow the signs and figure out where the portal's located, keep it shut till the end of the week. It's that simple."

When Dean had finished, he noticed that Sam was looking at him strangely, with a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. "What?"

Sam's smirk grew a little bigger. "Nothing."

"No, seriously, what?" Dean asked confusedly.

"It's just…" Sam gave a quiet laugh. "You…you sounded so much like Dad."

Dean had to give a laugh too. "Damn, I did, didn't I?"

There was a pause of uncomfortable tension. John had undoubtedly been on his sons' minds ever since that night in Chicago. They hadn't heard from him, and they hadn't really discussed any of it between each other. Probably because each knew that it would only result in another argument. Another fight over following orders, getting the ceiling demon, being the good son, and avenging mom and Jessica. It wasn't worth it. Not yet, anyway.

The waitress came back and set Dean's food down. She again asked Sam if he wanted anything, and again he declined. She advised him to just call her over if they needed anything else, and went back to her job.

Dean launched into his burger ravenously enough to make Sam cringe. They'd skipped lunch, and Dean had only had coffee and a bite of concrete donut for breakfast, so he was starving. Finally, however, he took notice of Sam. Sam had eaten as little as he had, if not less. Big brother instincts clicked on.

"You sure your okay?"

Sam nodded, but only looked blankly out the window, his mind elsewhere. "Just not hungry. That's all."

"You sure?"

Sam gave him a dubious look. "After watching you eat, I don't think I'll be hungry for a while."

Dean scowled at him and defiantly took a huge chomp of his burger, relishing it as he slowly chewed it.

* * *

Gavin sat in the middle of his cell, bathed in moonlight. He held in his hands a single black candle. His eyes remained fixated on the dancing flame as he meditated. He would need all of his strength to pull of such a spell with so little power left.

* * *

The brothers had gone back to the hotel, deciding that all they could do was wait for the portal to broadcast another sign. Dean had hit the sack quickly, feeling rather ill from how fast he'd wolfed down his burger. Sam, however, was doing a little night-reading with Dad's journal. He wanted to give it another once over before finally turning out the light. But, it was no use. He was convinced now that Gavin had cast some sort of charm to keep his old home hidden. The good news was that whatever he'd left there must be preserved; the bad news was that it would probably stay there till kingdom come. 

But Sam kept reading. And it wasn't because he actually thought he'd find something. He didn't want to have the dream again, and he had a sickening feeling that that was exactly what was awaiting him if he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Finally, Gavin blinked, breaking out of the meditative state. He blew out the candle and set it down by the other items he had put on his right. Gavin reached under his bunk and took out a beer bottle and a rag. The bottle was filled with a clear liquid; human sweat. There was a great deal after ten years. Gavin dabbed the rag in the bottle and began painting a symbol on the floor.

* * *

_What am I doing?_ Sam thought to himself. _I can't let some dream freak me out. I don't even know what it means._

"I'm not going to run from this," he stated resolutely as he closed the journal.

He put the journal down on the floor, rolled over to turn out his light, then settled onto the mothball smelling mattress to try and get some sleep.

* * *

The symbol looked similar to a yinyang, except that the yin and yang had separated, putting emphasis on each of the shapes as individuals. When the symbol was finished, Gavin picked up the shank. 

"Masters, it is your loyal servant," he greeted quietly as he used the crude shank to slowly cut open his left palm. The blood shone black in the shaft of pure moonlight. As blood dripped onto the symbol quite liberally, Gavin began to quietly chant in an ancient language, a tongue lost to the sands of time that had only survived through the magic it offered.

Now the symbol began to faintly glow. Gavin watched in anticipation as he chanted. Soon the blood disappeared and the symbol continued to glow. The payment had been accepted. Gavin's cold eyes glinted with excitement.

He set the shank down and exchanged it for the mirror. He placed it at a specific angle with the moonlight, letting the light hit the map he had placed next to the symbol. The map was of Arizona. A circle had been drawn clearly encircling the area around Coolidge and Florence.

Gavin could feel the magic beginning to work; the room had suddenly gotten a little warmer and there was an odd tingling in the air. He proceeded to take out a long cord that had 39 knots. He quickly took the last free space on the cord and tied the final 40th knot. The air became more energized. Gavin quickly got up and stashed the cord behind a pipe. The cord was an extra precaution, but Gavin hadn't wanted to take any chances. It had to remain hidden.

Gavin returned to the symbol, watching excitedly as it glowed a little brighter. This was the point in the ritual when he could make a request. And he gladly did so. He had given a lot of thought to the request throughout the day. It had to be brief, yet specific. What he really wanted could not be easily translated, but he had managed to find a phrase to fit his purposes.

So, in the ancient, powerful language he quietly requested: "_One like me. One like me_. "

The symbol suddenly glowed much brighter. Gavin looked directly at his image in the mirror. It was warping, changing. Gavin smiled with an evil happiness. Suddenly, a force shoved him backward until he was pressed up against the concrete wall of his cell. But his smile did not fade. Even as he lost control of his body, the smile remained plastered on his face.

* * *

Sam suddenly woke up in a panic. He hadn't had the dream, he was sure of it, yet that feeling… Something was very, very wrong. 

All of a sudden, Sam felt an unseen force press down on him. He had to gasp for air. His eyes widened in fear. What the hell was happening? He tried to call out to Dean, who was fast asleep a mocking three feet from him. But Sam couldn't move his lips or tongue; he couldn't move at all!

Then the pain came. An extreme, horrible pain. If this was what the dream had foreseen, it had barely given him an inkling of what the pain was like. This wasn't just skin being ripped off. It was being burned away, grated away, clawed away. Sam couldn't scream physically, but internally he was. Screaming and screaming in the horrible pain.

Suddenly, the pain began to dull a little and he felt like he was being lifted, floating. No! He was being taken away! It was just like the dream! Sam desperately tried to fight, but he suddenly had no sense of where he was, _what_ he was.

Floating up, up, up… And then he got the sense that he was moving very very fast, over a vast distance.

Then he hit something. Strange; he couldn't actually feel anything… But there was an impact, of that he was sure. Because the impact was so strong that it knocked him out on contact.

* * *

Victor Gavin's body lay still in its cell. It spasmed suddenly for two seconds, and then stilled all over again. It slumped limply against the wall and to the floor.

* * *

Sam Winchester's body lay still in its bed. It jerked suddenly, like something had hit it. A black band appeared around each of its wrists. Then its eyes popped open.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: New Residence

Victor immediately sat up and looked around, taking in every part of his environment, just like he did when he had his visions. He was on a bed, and it smelled like mothballs. The scenery was so classic: the neutral yet cheap décor, the small bathroom to the left, the duffel bags strewn about the tan carpeted floor, and the double beds (who was that over there? Were they still asleep? Yes? Good.) told Gavin that he was in a motel. He had made sure that he would 'land' somewhere in the Florence-Coolidge area. Right near his old home, his old 'hunting ground'. And more importantly: the general area where the portal was.

He didn't pause to wonder what he looked like-he could already tell he'd at least gotten a human male's body and that was a big enough success for him not to care about much else. He looked over at his roommate. It was another guy, a young but fit one. Putting two and two together, Victor couldn't help but smirk. Ten years of avoiding the queers in the big house, and as soon as he gets out he becomes one. Had to love the Ancient Ones' sense of irony.

But Gavin wasn't really in the mood to hang around for the roommate to wake up. He needed clothes, cash, and, if possible, a car. So, he went for the duffel bags on the floor. He chose one and random and quickly unzipped it. The sound of the zipper must have been too loud, because the roommate suddenly began to stir. Victor froze from his position on the floor, barely breathing, his eyes on the roommate, whose soft muttering rose ever so slightly, then died.

Victor breathed in relief, then went back to the bag's contents. He did not find what he had been expecting. There were no clothes, toiletries, cash, car keys, or even freaky sex toys. The bag was filled to the brim with IDs. Gavin just gawked at the sight for a minute, stunned by its magnitude, then picked one out and studied it. The picture was on a young man…the roommate or himself? Victor held it up for a comparison, trying to get a good look at the roommate's face from his position. Yeah, that could be him, but it wasn't definite. Gavin scratched his head, and then he realized how long his hair was, his fingers tracing it just a bit past his ears. Yes, then that must be the roommate. The name was 'James Page'. Okay, well now he knew the roommate's name. He chose another. It was the same picture of the roommate, different name: Keith Moon, and according to this he was a park ranger.

_Wait a minute… Jimmy Page from Led Zepplin and Keith Moon from the Who?_

He took another-this time a different face. The hair length indicated that it might be his new face, but he wasn't sure. The name was 'Syd Barrett' (_leader of Pink Floyd_, Gavin realized) and the occupation was a reporter for the New York Times.

Gavin paused for a minute to fully appreciate the size of the bag. He himself had had a couple false IDs on hand back in the day, but _this_… CIA agents didn't have this many aliases. Whose body had he jumped into? Gavin no longer thought the roommate and his new identity as boyfriends. Conmen seemed much more likely at this point.

Finding the bag of aliases essentially useless, Gavin tossed it aside. He was going to move on to one of the other duffel bags, but something on the floor by his bed caught his eye. It was a book, leather bound and stuffed full of various items. His curiosity getting the better of him, Gavin picked up the book and began to look through it.

It didn't take long for Gavin to realize that one of two things had happened either a)-he'd landed in the body of two nutjobs, or b), the far more intriguing option, these two were the real deal. Werewolves, alchemy, exorcisms…even pixies for cripe's sake! Sketches of monsters and the proper weapons to kill them with. Symbols and the rituals they were used for. English translations of languages most people didn't even know had ever existed. Victor Gavin had, until coming upon this book, assumed that he was in the top of his class when it came to the occult. And he was, compared to the average person. But these two, this new body and the roommate… It was like comparing a child learning about the solar system in elementary school to a NASA scientist.

Gavin flipped ahead to a dog-eared section. His-the new body's-eyes widened upon finding the articles with his (his old) face on them. There were notes scrawled here and there, notes about the sacrifices from ten years ago. Details that the police hadn't released. Gavin eyed the roommate suspiciously. Who in the hell were these guys? And why did they have such an interest in this shit, and, more importantly, him?

It occurred to Victor that maybe running off so soon wasn't the best tactic. No way was this a coincidence; the portal is close to opening and these two guys with a book filled with all kinds of freak show shit just happen to be in a motel in the same place? Maybe they were trying to open it… But the notations of binding spells and directions on how to banish, rather than conjure, demons led Gavin to think otherwise. Maybe these guys were white hats. It wouldn't surprise him; whenever something big was about to go down, folks from both sides showed up at the party.

But Victor supposed it didn't really matter what side they were on. One of them was already out of the picture anyway. The point was that the other one seemed to know what he was doing. And what was the phrase? 'Two heads are better than one?' The roommate, be he Keith Moon, Jimmy Page, or even fucking Howdy Doody, was looking for the portal, as was Victor Gavin, aka Syd Barret, aka Howdy Doody's sidekick.

Playing the part as someone he'd never even met would be a hell of a lot more difficult than just picking up and going on his own. But Victor saw that there was little risk. Hell, just a couple of minutes ago he'd been on death row in a state prison. This was nothing. He could still run off anytime he liked. And besides, exactly how many times does a person actually think that someone they know has switched bodies with another person?

Vic also was looking forward to the challenge. He'd always enjoyed the good con. Conning five idiot teenagers to get into his car had been easy. Conning his naïve lawyer was kid's stuff _and_ priceless. Conning Tucker to be his virtual slave had barely been worth the time. But this… This would be the king of every con ever played if he pulled it off.

Of course, knowing his own and the roommate's name was required for success. Gavin flipped through the book, searching for clues. But there was nothing; the book seemed strictly business, despite it obviously being a personal possession.

_Whoever put it together must be a real hard ass,_ Vic thought to himself.

Finally, he found one page that stuck out. It was written in large, hurriedly scrawled print, and short, like a message. 'Dean 85-118'. Dean… That could be his new name. Or the roommate's. Or someone else's.

Gavin sighed in frustration. He was about to move to the next duffel bag, but the shifting in his weight caused the floor boards beneath him to creek loudly in protest.

There was a sudden scurry of fluttered sheets and hitched breath from behind, and Gavin turned to see the roommate sitting up in bed, a dagger held out protectively before him.

_Shit_, Gavin thought, as he kept his face strategically blank, _Paranoid much, Howdy?_

Dean, light sleeper that he was, had started upon hearing the loud sound, knife out and ready for any attacker that was going to harm himself or his brother. But he saw no dark figure looming over him or the other bed-which was empty. Where was Sammy? Then Dean spotted him on the floor, apparently the source of the noise. Dean breathed with relief as he placed the knife back under his pillow.

"Damn it, Sam. What are you doing, making me think the fucking boogeyman snuck in?" Dean asked, adding humor and a cut to shield himself from any embarrassment.

Gavin wasn't sure how to respond. Too late to re-think pulling the scam. He was caught off guard, and not quite ready to pretend to be in character. He was also a little more focused on discovering that his new name was apparently Sam.

Dean looked over at the clock. It felt early, and the blinking red lights confirmed his suspicions. "What the hell are you doing? It's five in the morning!"

Gavin may not have been ready to pull the con, but he'd been in prison, and there was one thing you told people when they asked what you were doing and you didn't want to tell them.

"Nothing," he replied simply with a voice that wasn't his own. It was youthful and strong. He rose slowly, turning his face away so as to not give anything away. He looked down at the open page in his hands. 'Dean 85-118'. Well, it was a better guess than Howdy Doody. "Nothing, Dean."

Dean looked concernedly at his brother. Why was he up at five reading Dad's journal? Why _else_? "You have another weird dream?" he asked.

"No." It was a fifty-fifty question, and if he'd said 'yes', Gavin knew that he'd probably have to describe the dream, and he didn't have the energy to make up a convincing one.

"Then get back to bed, Sammy," Dean commanded irritably as he rolled back over. Of course, he understood why Sam would want to avoid sleep. He'd acted weird all of yesterday because of the last one. Not to mention the normal nightmares. But they were on a hunt for a portal to Hell that was supposed to open sometime in the next week. Sam was going to have to get things together.

Gavin decided to obey, setting the book back down and walking over to the bed. It was an odd moment for him, where he was actually listening to a person's orders with out question. So his new name was Sam, and the roommate was Dean. He had a week, or until the location of the portal was discovered,to use that information to pass as this new body's true owner.

* * *

Sam slowly came into consciousness. His first thought was 'Oh good, it doesn't hurt anymore.' He was confused, wondering where that had come from. Then it came back. The inability to move, the force pressing down… Shit, what a dream! They seemed to be getting worse with every night. That unsettling feeling had still carried over into the waking world, and had intensified. He began to open his eyes, ready to have the same routine as yesterday. See the motel room, the duffel bags, the laptop, the mothball smelling beds (which didn't smell so bad anymore…in fact, he couldn't smell any mothballs). But above all, see Dean. Hear him make some 'shining' jokes, then get all concerned about him in that big brother way. That was all Sam needed.

As soon as he opened his eyes, however, Sam knew that something was wrong. The ceiling of the motel room was a sick, faded yellow. Dean had commented that it looked like Goldilocks had puked the stolen porridge up there. This ceiling was white washed. And the floor… This was not the lumpy mattress, nor the scratchy carpet. It was cold concrete.

Sam sat up and looked around his new environment, his heart starting to beat faster. It was a cell, all white washed, about five feet wide and just over ten feet long. Near by, there was a cot with a steel frame and a thin, green woolen blanket on top. A TV sat on a plain table across from the bed. Pipes lined a portion of the left wall.

The 'dream' hadn't been one at all; it had actually happened, Sam knew as his stomach churned with worry. He really had been taken away. But away to where?

Sam stood and, upon the peculiar touch against his skin, he looked down to finally realize that he wasn't wearing the 'Notre Dame' t-shirt and boxer shorts anymore. In their place was a light blue uniform and a white undershirt. Damn it, where the hell was he?

And where was Dean? Sam's concern immediately jumped to his brother. Had Dean been taken as well? Was he in a cell similar to this, trying to figure out what the hell had happened, or in worse condition? Or there was the flip side of the coin: he was either already was or was soon going to be crazy with worry about his missing little brother. But if that was the case, than Sam knew that Dean was going to do everything in his power to find him and rescue him. Again.

Sam had to smirk at that thought. Once again, he'd been kidnapped and put in a cell, with little else to do than twiddle his thumbs and wait for Dean to show up. Well, at least the place looked a bit more comfortable than the Benders' humble abode. Still, the motive for his placement here could be just as sinister.

There was light shining in from a barred window at the other end of the cell. Sam decided that he could look out of it to try and figure out where he was. It was warm… not a bad, spook sort of warm, but the hot Arizona morning kind that he'd been exposed to in these past few days. Okay, so he was still in Arizona, or at least in the west. And given how dry the air felt, it was in the desert.

When he got to the window, Sam got even more puzzled. The window wasn't more than six feet off the ground, probably to give the occupant better ventilation to relieve them from the heat. The clothes were long sleeved and probably made of a cheap fabric, like polyester. It wasn't exactly comfortable. But despite the low level of the window, Sam couldn't reach it. He was about an inch or so short of looking out of it. Sam paused for a minute to try to figure out how this was possible. He ran his hand through his hair…

Wait.

He'd thought that his neck had felt cooler than normal. It was short, close-cropped.

Sam was slowly starting to fall into the waves of panic that he'd been suppressing since waking up. That feeling of not belonging, of being unnatural, was all over him, suffocating him. He'd been kidnapped, his clothes changed, his hair cut, and his height somehow altered. And all the while, what, he'd been knocked out? Winchesters were light sleepers themselves, but nobody stayed totally out of it when their hair was cut and their clothes changed.

Magic was the only answer Sam could think of. He decided to just leave it at that until he figured out where he was and/or a way to escape.

He stepped up onto a cluster of pipes (he was wearing Velcro shoes. Why?) and grabbed the two bars of the small window to hoist himself up to see out of it.

The vista that greeted him was flat desert stretching as far as the eye could see, a rather depressing reward for his efforts. Directly below him and off to the side were bleak gray buildings with larger windows, also with bars. Sam could also see the chain-link fence with rings of barbed wire at the top that seemed to encircle the whole compound. A watchtower stood to the right where a uniformed guard stood with a rifle in hand.

Sam's eyes widened and he could feel his heart pounding as it began to dawn on him where he was. He jumped back down to the ground. He looked at the rectangular patch sewn to his chest. A series of black numbers stared back at him: 3278459.

He was in prison.

"Shit," Sam muttered. But as soon as he'd spoken, he started. Sam didn't curse all that often, that was more Dean's thing. When he said it, it sounded unnatural, like a politician or priest saying it. But that wasn't why a chill was going down Sam's spine at the oath. It was because his voice hadn't spoken. A rough, older voice with a Southern or Texan flavor had said it instead.

Sam looked at his hands, which were shaking as he raised them. They were tan, older, and callused. And there were definitely not his.

He was in jail, shorter, and wearing someone else hands.

* * *


End file.
